Earl Grey
by Lady Aurelia
Summary: She loves him, she tells herself. She truly, dearly loves Arthur. She wishes she wasn't lying to herself. [fem!Prussia x England, one-sided fem!Prussia x male!Hungary. Oneshot.]


She gently grasped the red curtains in her hand and pulled so that she could see the outside better. There was nothing interesting worth watching, but the albino needed a distraction from the casual talk over tea. The sun's bright rays hit her skin and she involuntarily flinched; she had forgotten for a moment that her skin could not handle the sun.

"English summers are hot and humid," the other occupant in the room commented. "And bright."

"A little too late of a warning," she snorted as she let the curtains fall from her hands. Reluctantly, she made her way back to the center of the parlour and took a seat across from the sandy blond Englishman. He poured her a cup of tea and she nodded in silent thanks.

"I thought you would know by now, dove," he sounded amused.

"You make it sound like we live here," she replied.

He gave her a wry smile and leaned back into his own chair. The albino woman shook her head with her own smile and raised the teacup to her lips. She sat on the edge of the seat, legs tucked neatly under the armchair, with a practiced grace that was not needed for such a casual event.

"You might as well," he said. She put down her teacup on its plate and it barely made a noise as porcelain met porcelain.

"You don't think we're freeloading?" she raised an eyebrow.

"That would be an insult to your baking, Maria," he chuckled.

Maria rolled her eyes playfully and folded her hands in her lap. Afternoon tea with Arthur was more of a tradition than just formality, and even more so since she had begun to stay at his abode. She never mentioned why she decided to show up one day with her things, and Arthur never asked. She would tell him on her own time.

And the trust that the Englishman had for her secretly broke her on the inside.

Maria released a sigh and cast her duo-coloured eyes downward to her folded hands. Just thinking about it made another wave of guilt rise in her stomach, and if she was not in his company right now she would have gagged.

"Is something wrong, love?" his voice broke her out of her thoughts. She offered him a tired smile.

Love. In her experience, the word was fickle and never lasted. Bradenburg certainly engrained that in her head (but what could she have expected out of a political marriage? Her naïve mind back then could not come to terms with it). She silently wondered how long she could keep up this façade before she gave in; she loved Arthur, she really did, and there was no one else she would rather spend her afternoons with—no one except _Miklos_.

With the Hungarian, the word 'love' did not apply as it would to her experiences. Many things may have faded with time, but to her absolute horror and deceitful relief, her love for Miklos did not fade with it. She once mused that she was a masochist for longing after something she could never have, and it tore her apart inside when he smiled at the beautiful and graceful brunette that was not her.

Even now, her use of the royal pronoun 'we,' her graceful and ladylike manners that were second nature, her_ hair—_she did it all for Miklos. But even still, when he smiled at her, they were not as bright as the ones he reserved for his former wife. She _abhorred_ him for it, and cursed him for putting her through the emotional turmoil, but she could not find it in herself to_ hate_ Miklos. Because she still loved him.

"A little tired," she lied through her teeth (another lie to add to the list).

Arthur did not deserve this, she lamented. He had nothing to do with her troubles, and she had no right to drag him, unknowingly, into them. She had no right to love another man besides the one in front of her, her current lover. Maria had genuine feelings for the Englishman, and perhaps that was the reason why she dragged him along in her lie. She focused all of her unrequited love for Miklos on him, and he, innocently, took them as love for him. No, he was not a lover, she thought with regret—he was a _replacement._

"Do you want me to wash up this time, then?" he asked and reached out to grab the tea tray.

"It would be appreciated," she replied.

As he placed the expensive and intricately designed tea set back onto the tray with as much care as handling a newborn, Maria let her thoughts continue drifting.

There were times when Arthur made her happy, and she forgot all about the Hungarian and her guilty feelings for him. Those were times that she treasured, for they were the only time that her feelings for the Englishman were not artificially amplified, and the only time she could tell Arthur she loved him without regret. But they were rare and never lasted long enough for her.

Inwardly, she was disgusted at herself. How could she do this to him? A traitorous and bitter part of her mind told her she could because he was there on that fateful day in February almost seventy years ago. He signed that paper that sealed her fate and robbed her of the very thing that made her, _her_. But of all the people she held a grudge against for signing that paper; she did not wish to lead _him_ along like this. Another part of her mind told her that he apologized and deeply regretted it.

(But so what? Ludwig apologized as well, and he surely regretted it more than anyone else, but she _still_ did not forgive him. Hell hath no wrath like a woman scorned—so what made Arthur special?)

Maria stood up and made her way out of the parlour. She heard the faucet turn on in the kitchen as Arthur began to wash the tea set. Maria wanted to desperately drop her act right then and there, and run to him like an open book. She gripped the railing of the stairs so tightly that her knuckles turned even paler than her already colourless skin.

"We're sorry," she whispered quietly in the direction of the kitchen. "We're so, so sorry."

He would never hear her, but the small confession would satisfy her guilt for now.


End file.
